


"I Am Deeply Sorry"

by GingerBreton



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Betrayal of Trust, F/M, Implied Nudity, Implied Sexual Content, Introspection, Lies, Poor Life Choices, Revelations Spoilers, implied depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 13:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20258671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerBreton/pseuds/GingerBreton
Summary: Blackwall tears himself away from Skyhold and from his Inquisitor to finally do the right thing - the wrong way.A rather introspective look at events from Blackwall's pov as he leaves for Val Royeaux in the dead of night, after a night with the Inquisitor.





	"I Am Deeply Sorry"

It’s late - late enough that even the most hardened revellers have long since stumbled from the Herald’s Rest and retreated to their beds. The moon is well past its peak, though still bright enough to dull the stars that scatter the mostly clear sky. It casts an eerie spotlight across the deserted lower courtyard, illuminating nothing more than the rustling leaves of trees that seem caught in an eternal autumn. Silence reins, save for the occasion shifting of horses in their stalls on the barn’s lower level, and the rhythmic footfalls of patrolling soldiers on the battlements above. 

Thom Rainier - that is who he is, after all, and it’s well past time to goes back to his old name, to stop hiding behind the mask of another man - he dresses as quickly and quietly as he can manage. Perhaps he should have run when the noble at the Winter Palace recognised him. He definitely should have scarpered when the very institution he hid behind as a guise of nobility and purpose became corrupted. But he didn’t, fool that he is, he clung on to all that he’s made Blackwall, with tooth and nail, because, for all his failings, Thom cares about what they’re doing. Really cares, for the first time in a long time. And he cares about her. 

But then the news about Mornay arrived, and the decision was made for him. He can’t delay any longer. 

With every creak of the barn’s aging boards he freezes stock still, silently cursing the building’s desire to expose his cowardice. It’s a strain to pack while attempting to barely move a muscle, even more so to try not to look back at the source of his immediate guilt, radiating from behind him. He packs only the essentials, nothing more than he arrived at Haven with all those months before - anything else isn’t his to take. 

And now that he’s eventually ready to leave, a soft sigh comes from the bed behind him, as though she knows. Thom finally allows himself a moment to look at her, to try and capture the memory of happiness he should never have allowed himself to have. Freya sleeps peacefully, all the worries she carries seemingly gone - at least until the morning. The moonlight illuminates bare skin, chilled air sending goosebumps across freckled shoulders, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, and the slight flicker of dreaming eyes behind eyelids are mesmerising. Her hair, freed from its usual restraints, spreads like a wildly curling halo of honey-blonde. He has no right to see her this vulnerable, to have caused it. 

Thom’s stomach knots. It was never meant to happen like this. He should have said his farewells the night before, he should never have-- Every time he thinks he’s rid himself of the cruelty of his former life, he disappoints himself - and everyone around him. He hopes that she’ll remember him as the noble Warden she thinks she is, but given the circumstances, it’s unlikely. 

_ Well, better she thinks you’re a bastard who left her, than she sees what you really are. _

A wistful thought plays on Thom’s mind; maybe if he’d met her sooner, things might have been different,  _ he _ might have been different - the idle fancy is easily crushed, as easily as he knows Rainier would have crushed that gentle heart, never giving himself time to see her as more than a conquest, a temporary amusement. 

Was this any better? 

Perhaps he ought to have told her that he loves her? Perhaps that would ease the pain to come, or maybe it would just make it worse. Truth is he does love her - has done for a long time - but he has no right to. She deserves so much better. And when she whispered the words against his lips the night before, he was wrapped in the bittersweet elation of knowing he’s not mistaken her feelings, and the realisation that that love is really for an illusion of a man. 

But that’s nobody’s fault but his own. 

The night sky remains clear for the moment, though clouds are building to the north-east, promising snow. Negotiating a blizzard in the dark will be difficult, but it will make his exit from Skyhold all the easier to hide, and his tracks all the harder to follow when they see he’s gone - he knows she’ll look. He waits for the clouds to creep closer, the sky growing hazy with snow fall. Slinging his pack over his shoulder, Thom crouches down by the bed, placing the Warden-Constable’s badge at Freya’s side as softly as possible - unsure if he’s making a dramatic, symbolic gesture, or just leaving everything he’s cared about for the last few years in a neat pile. 

One last look, but no more after that or he’ll never be able to tear himself away. Freya smiles in her sleep, just a slight curl to her lips, but it damn near rips his heart out. She looks so utterly at peace, and it takes all his strength not to brush the loose curls from her face, to kiss her goodbye, because the risk that she’ll wake is too great. Instead, he steals away down the stairs, collecting his sword and shield as he goes - Rainer’s ones, not the ones she’s given him. They aren’t his to take. 

He’s barely made it two steps from the barn when an ache calls him back - a need to explain, to apologise, but all he can muster is a hastily scribbled note. 

_ “I am deeply sorry” _

His eyes dart to the stairs as he writes, half in fear, half in hope that she will appear, that she’ll stop him from leaving, that he can continue to pretend. But Thom’s lived long enough with this craven heart - so he tucks the note under one of the legs of the never-to-be-finished rocking horse, and with a final look back to the stairs, he leaves. 

Staying in the shadow of the curtain wall, pausing only to avoid a patrol, he makes his way through the barbican and out across the bridge. The snow is falling thickly now, whipped on glacial winds that have yet to breach the walls of the stronghold. Icy flakes cling to his cloak and hair, leaving frostbitten kisses on his cheeks - adding a much needed layer of camouflage from the ever present eyes atop the battlements, or so he hopes. 

Ahead of him lie the jagged peaks of the western Frostbacks, black against a sky now blurred by the storm. Even the moon has abandoned him in his cowardly escape. His footprints are already starting to cover over as he reaches the mountain pass leading down towards the Dales - the one they took to the Winter Palace. Thom’s mind drifts to a stolen moment on a balcony, a dance he would treasure, and as he trudges on, he lets memory of the music and the steps carry him forward. 

He has to shake his thoughts loose, to remind himself of the dangers of mountain travel, to keep his shield at the ready and his sword to hand, as the falling flakes make it difficult to judge the distance of the ominous lupine howls on the wind. It won’t be an easy journey, but if he moves fast he’ll reach Val Royeaux in time, well, six years late if truth be told, but in time for this, and now he’s finally strong enough to do the right thing, for there to finally be an end to it all. He pulls his cloak tight against the storm and presses on into the battering winds.

This time, Thom Rainier doesn’t look back.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a new ship to write for me, so i'm still getting the feel of it and for Blackwall's voice as it were. Practice makes perfect, I guess. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
